


Maybe Next Time ...

by kosmickway (KMDWriterGrl)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KMDWriterGrl/pseuds/kosmickway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A light-hearted take on how Sara handled the events of "The Good, The Bad, and the Dominatrix"-- with alcohol and karaoke.  I've quoted liberally from Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats." It seemed fitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Next Time ...

It was Sara’s personal policy never to perform on stage while drunk. Any of her singing, guitar playing, and what could loosely be called dancing was done while she was completely and totally sober, so as to stave off any ridiculous urges to sing out of her range, try a guitar riff she hadn’t mastered, or gyrate in a way that would either make her look completely slutty or would result in a ruptured disc. 

Tonight, however, was a different story. Tonight was the first night she’d been well and truly mad enough at Gil Grissom to drink her way out of her temper. It was also the first time she’d felt sorry enough for herself to play right into the “I’m angry/depressed/vindictive– karaoke will fix it!” stereotype. 

“Sara, honey, I think it’s time to cut you off,” Nick said, slurring just enough for Sara to know that he had reached his own limit. “You don’t DO this kind of thing.”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed, slamming shut the thick karaoke book. “But maybe it’s time I started.”

“Oh, damn,” Nick said, leaning over to tap Catherine’s shoulder. The red-head was busily flirting with Warrick but she turned around to peer at Nick. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one with the temper?”

“Say what?” Catherine grabbed Nick’s drink and held it up to the light. “What are you drinking?”

“Vodka cranberry. Anyway, aren’t redheads supposed to be all piss and vinegar?”

“Something like that. Why?”

“I think Sara might have a little red-head in her.”

“Oh?” Warrick leaned over Catherine’s shoulder to look at Nick. “What’s that mean?”

“That means our girl’s getting up there to sing karaoke. And she’s pissed about something–“

Catherine and Warrick had just enough time to blink in surprise before the emcee announced, “Next up– Carrie Underwood’s new one from the lovely Miss Sara, who dedicates it to her boyfriend ... who I think will be sleeping in the doghouse tonight!” The emcee chuckled and cued up the song. “Do it up, Sara!”

Piano and a slow guitar lead in to the song and Sara began singing in her sweet, clear voice. 

_Right now he’s probably slow dancing with a bleach blonde tramp and she’s probably gettin’ frisky_

_Right now he’s probably buying her some fruity little drink cause she can’t shoot whiskey_

_Right now he’s probably up behind her with a pool stick showing her how to shoot a combo_

_And he don’t know ..._

And as the guitar took off, Sara’s voice got huskier and filled with what Nick could only describe as vindictive glee. 

_That I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up four-wheel drive_

_Carved my name into his leather seats_

_I took a Louisville Slugger to both head lights_

_Slashed a hole in all four tires_

_Maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats._

Mouths dropped open from the CSI’s around the table. Nick guffawed and slapped his thigh, whooping, “Oh, man, some poor bastard is in TROUBLE!”

Catherine began cackling. “Poor guy. Wherever he is I wouldn’t want to be there when Sara gets home, that’s for sure!”

“So, um, who knew Sara had a boyfriend?” Greg asked, slugging back the rest of his Corona.

A chorus of “Not me”s resounded around the table. “Looks like she won’t have him for long,” Warrick predicted, watching Sara strutting around on stage. “She looks like she really wants to go out and do some damage to the dude’s car.”

 Greg grinned and began attacking the Mexican pizza with renewed zest as Sara’s voice filled the room again.

 

_Right now she’s probably up singing some white-trash version of Shania karaoke_

_Right now she’s probably saying ‘I’m drunk” and he’s thinking that he’s gonna get lucky._

_Right now he’s probably dabbing on $3.00 worth of that bathroom Polo_

_Oh, and he don’t know ..._

 

_That I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up four-wheel drive_

_Carved my name into his leather seats_

_I took a Louisville Slugger to both head lights_

_Slashed a hole in all four tires_

_Maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats._

 

_I mighta saved a little trouble for the next girl_

_Cause the next time that he cheats,_

_Oh, you know it won’t be on me._

_No, not on me._

***

Sara stumbled into the townhouse much later than she’d planned. She was feeling no pain– alcoholic beverages and more saturated fat than the human body could handle had all conspired to make her feel much mellower. She let Hank in from the yard and slumped on the sofa, idly scratching his head, trying to find the energy to drag herself into the bedroom to put on pajamas. 

As she was contemplating just pulling her shoes off and curling up on the couch, a key turned in the lock and Grissom crept inside. 

Hank padded over to his master. Sara mumbled, “traitor” and was pleased to see Gris jump. 

“Sara, what are you still doing up?”

“What are YOU still doing up?” she parroted. 

“I’m just now getting in.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

Grissom entered the living room, Hank at his heels, and sat down next to Sara. “Ugh, you smell like the bar.”

“THAT is why they pay you the big money,” Sara cracked. “Because you can tell things like that.”

“I take it you went out after work.”

“With my friends, yes. I went out with my friends. Cath and Nicky and Ricky and Leggo my Greggo.”

“Are they as drunk as you are?” Grissom asked drily.

Sara cackled. “Cath was so drunk that I think she and ‘Rick may have gone home together. You know– HOME together.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “And Nicky was four sheets to the wind. But, damn, the Texan can dance, even when he’s drunk.” 

“Sorry I missed it.”

“Oh, no you’re not,” Sara scoffed. “You aren’t sorry at all. You would have hated every minute of it. You would have sat there, sipping on club soda, making snarky remarks and no one would have had a good time because they would have been too worried about how you were judging them.”

Grissom went very still next to her and she knew, just KNEW, even in her inebriation, that she had gone one step too far. Then remembering where he had been and why he’d come in so late, she couldn’t make herself regret it. 

“You’re obviously very angry at me. You’ve got every right to be. But that really was uncalled for.”

She felt 2 inches tall then, and it only served to make her angrier. She shot up from the couch, fatigue gone, standing tall and terrible. “No, goddam it, it wasn’t uncalled for. What’s uncalled for is this–“ She waved her hand, encompassing Grissom– “you coming in at whatever the hell time it is, after you’ve been with HER all day and all night, doing God knows what, and expecting me to cut you some slack when I’m mad as hell and ready to break your fucking jaw–“ 

She stepped forward, hardly aware that she’d started to ball her fists, feeling only the anger bubbling up in her chest like acid. Grissom was sitting there, staring owlishly up at her, so damnably unperturbed, so unemotional and calm, that all she wanted in that moment was to launch herself at him and shake him until the truth rattled out of him like dice in a shaker. 

He’d been with Heather, of course, “beautiful, smart, intense, charming” Lady Heather, the “only woman who’s been able to rattle Grissom,” the woman who’s both “uninhibited” and can “beat him at mental chess,” if she was to listen to the words Catherine had so carelessly thrown out, not knowing that every one was a dagger in Sara’s chest. 

Grey shades of Sara’s mother throwing punches at her father came flashing through her brain– drunken Laura, weaving as she stumbled around the room, screaming at Timothy for God only knew what reason, her fists balled up, dark hair flying around her face when she launched herself at her husband’s chest. Gouge marks on her father’s face, bruises across his chest and arms, defensive wounds on his hands ... and then his own fists flying as he moved in front of Sara, shielding her from Laura’s open-handed slaps. 

The images sobered her like nothing else could have. Nausea swam up in her stomach, thick and greasy, and she swayed, grabbed for the mantle of the fireplace. 

Grissom was at her side immediately, arm around her shoulders. “Deep breaths, honey, just hold on, let me get you into the kitchen.” He somehow got their legs working in tandem and lead her into the kitchen, leaned her against the counter near the sink. “Are you going to be sick?”

She shook her head wordlessly, clutched the edge of the counter, biting back equal impulses to throw up, cry, and scream. She’d nearly hit him. She’d come so close. She’d wanted to, badly, she was so angry. God, it was shades of her mother all over again, crazy Laura Sidle with the towering temper, the woman who’d stabbed her husband 30 times in the chest after she’d made love to him trying to win him back. She was turning into her mother.

The song this evening had been a joke, nothing to take seriously. Sure, she’d felt some hot bubbling pleasure at the idea of actually _doing_ what the song said– smashing in headlights with a baseball bat, carving her name into leather seats, no better than some common street thug. But she’d never have done it, would never have dreamed of doing it. Why, if it was so hard for her to imagine destroying his property, had it suddenly been so easy for her to imagine hitting him, kicking, throwing herself bodily at him and scratching his eyes out? God, what kind of a woman was she? 

She was going to throw up. It was going to be bad. All of the alcohol and nachos and Mexican pizza ... oh, God, she HATED throwing up, hated the burn in her throat, the crying, the headache afterward. Oh, god, please god, not now, she couldn’t handle being sick in front of him, couldn’t stand to be so vulnerable.

She felt something cool on the back of her neck– a washcloth. Grissom was behind her, his body radiating heat in warm waves, his strong, competent hands rubbing gentle circles into her back. 

“Breathe in, counting to ten on the inhale, and then breathe out, counting backward from ten on the exhale. That should help calm the nausea. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?” His voice was soft, all the sarcasm and anger gone, leaving only concern and gentle warmth.

Sara took a shuddering breath in, parceling it out across ten slow seconds, concentrating to get it right. She released the air across another ten seconds, focusing on the oxygen and the numbers and him, his solid presence. 

“That’s right, dear. Just like that. Slow, easy breaths.” He brushed his fingers over her hair, pulling it away from her face. “Is it helping? Just nod or shake your head.”

She nodded, and realized the queasy swimming sensation _was_ actually ebbing with each sweep of breath. “I’m okay,” she managed to whisper. “I need to sit.”

He didn’t even try to move them, just sank to the floor, sliding down the cabinets, holding on to her arm to bring her with him. He reached over into one of the cabinets at arm’s length and drew out a plastic grocery bag, which he handed to her. “Just in case.”

She laughed weakly and clutched the bag, shifted the washcloth from the back of her neck to her forehead.

“I suppose a little angry doesn’t really begin to cover it, does it?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Or a little drunk.”

“A lot drunk.” Sara shuddered. “I hope you have a hangover remedy.”

“Let’s save that for the morning.” He took the washcloth from its resting place on her forehead and gently swept it over the plane of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, the bow of her lips, cooling the fevered skin. Sara closed her eyes, pathetically grateful for this tender mercy. 

“Poor baby.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic, which she hadn’t expected. Condescension, maybe, especially because they’d gone over the old terrain of her drinking many times already. But sympathy was certainly nothing she’d anticipated from him. 

“Sara, I know I gave you a hell of a scare today and I’m sorry, genuinely, deeply sorry. I came home just now because I realized where I needed to be, and it wasn’t at Heather’s mansion.”

“Then why–“

”She’s my friend, sweetheart, and you know as well as I do that it’s rare for me to find someone who I’m willing to call a friend. I understand her and she understands me and that’s something neither of us takes lightly. So when she needed me, the least I could do was be there for her.” 

He lay the washcloth aside and replaced it with the palm of his hand, moving up and down the back of her neck and over her throat in simple, light caresses. “She could never, EVER, take your place, Sara. You give me the strength to be human, to face down the things I’ve kept locked away and tried so hard not to touch. You’re the heart of me and I would never jeopardize that. If you don’t know that by now, it’s only because I haven’t communicated it properly. And that is my fault, not yours.”

“So you didn’t–“ She couldn’t even say it, the words hurt so much. 

“I didn’t sleep with her. Not tonight. If I had, do you honestly think I would have been able to come home to you?”

“Have you ever?”

“Four years ago I did. We spent one very lovely night together. But that was years ago, Sara, and it has nothing to do with now. It has nothing to do with you.” He shifted position so that he was sitting right in front of her, looking into her eyes. 

“I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear– that it meant nothing, that it was meaningless. It wasn’t. But it was _in the past_. Me being there with her tonight had nothing to do with that. I was with her tonight as one friend comforting another who’s frightened and alone.” He lightly ran his thumb over her cheekbone. “When I’m with you, I’m with the woman I love more completely than anyone else on this earth. When I’m with you, I promise you that there is no one else I’m thinking of. There never could be.”

Sara sighed deeply and pressed her aching head back against the cabinet. “I should have had more faith in you.”

“I should have given you a reason to have that faith.” His thumb moved from her cheekbone to trace across her lips. “I’ll try to remember that from now on.” He peered seriously at her, trepidation fluttering in his own grey-green eyes. “That is--we do still have a ‘from now on’, don’t we?” 

Sara brought her fingers up to trace his jaw. “Of course we do.”

Grissom leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “So you don’t object to sharing a bed with me then?”

“I’d never object to that.” She braced herself on the counter and slowly stood up, holding her head. “I’m REALLY going to pay for this evening tomorrow.”

Grissom laughed softly. “From what you told me, so are the rest of them.” He slid an arm around her waist and braced her against him as they made their way back to the bedroom. 

It wasn’t until they were lying in bed, her head on his chest, their legs tangled together, that Sara finally mumbled, “You know what the worst part was?”

“What, dear?” His hand stroking her bare shoulder felt wonderful. 

“I got drunk and sang really bad karaoke. I’m turning into a cliche.”

Grissom’s breath stirred her hair when he laughed. “Not you, my darling. You defy categorization. That’s why I love you.”

 

END. 


End file.
